


Tough choices

by Caliras



Series: Dyslexic Stan [18]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Cutting, Dyslexia, Dyslexic Stan, Grunkle Stan Needs A Hug, Homelessness, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Sad, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 11:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14953637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caliras/pseuds/Caliras
Summary: Stan wonders if he's strong enough to cut, or if he's strong enough to not cut.





	Tough choices

The blade hung over his thigh. Stan had never cut before. He never thought that he would. He just never had the time, or was afraid of the pain, or knew that the world would beat him down soon enough so that he didn’t have to do it himself. But… there was so many scars he’d put on other people’s hearts, and on his own. He just wanted to make his regret physical. He no longer wanted to carry it in just his heart where it grew heavy and cold. It hurt so much, knowing that he could’ve done better. Maybe, if he’d just tried harder, he wouldn’t have made those mistakes that harmed everyone around him. Stan knew it was wrong to do this, he knew he’d carry the scars. Which is why he selected his thigh. It was easy to conceal. But, for some reason, he couldn’t find it in him to make the first cut. Nor the will to put the blade down.

It was like time had frozen him in this moment. The blade was warm with how long he’d been holding it, but his hand was steady. Stuck, his mind began to wander. He felt disconnected from reality, as if he wasn’t about to draw out his regrets in red lines. He thinks about if it would affect him, if at all. He thinks about his life, and how it hadn’t come to this sooner. He remembers how his first pair of glasses were given to his by Ford, who wanted to help him see the stars clearly. When Filbrick asked about it, Ford refused to take the glasses back, even though Stan offered. Eventually, Filbrick gave in and got Ford new glasses after his grades started dropping (nothing could convince Stan that he didn’t do it on purpose). The blade inched away from his skin, and thus began a mental game of tug-of-war.

He remembered the first time Filbrick had hit him, how hurt he was. Not physically, but mentally. For the life of him, he couldn’t fathom why he had been struck. He had tried to understand why, making excuses and holding onto the hope that it would never happen again (it did). He thought about how proud he was when Dipper threw him into a chokehold. He was nowhere near strong enough to actually take him down, but he knew that that time would come, and his heart swelled with pride. (He doesn’t think he’ll ever get rid the whisper in the back of his head that told him he was only doing so they weren’t abused too. [He’d do anything to prevent that, but neither kid mentioned it to him, so he knew they were probably fine. The doubt lingered.])

He remembered when he would buy bitter, awful coffee as a treat. Because on the streets, it was. Sometimes, he had to chug the scalding liquid before he collapsed on the spot. Or it was in the dead of winter, and he could not risk it growing cold, or having someone steal it. He thinks about how he is able to take it now, slowly and with so much sugar and cream, you can barely taste the bean. He thinks about how they talked to him, back on the streets. He was many things on the streets, an asset. A messenger (since he couldn’t read the notes quickly, he was the most trusted to deliver them). A hindrance. A stray. Someone to be pitied. Someone that could be used. One thing always remained, he was always talked to as he were below them.

Until, that is, he started to make a name for himself. Several, in fact. Cheating people out of their money wasn’t fun, and it didn’t always work, but people recognized him. Most didn’t know about the product failure. The internet didn’t exist, so word was spread out slowly, since his failures weren’t big enough to put on T.V.. Soon, he found that he had to remember all of the names to respond to them. This wasn’t difficult, since his memory had only grown stronger in the streets. He could list you the most dangerous neighborhoods, he could tell you where the cheapest food was, and he remembered every name of the people who looked down on him. He couldn’t forget them, try as he might.

He had no desire to ever seek them out, but if one of them were to see him again… well, he’d know to keep the children away. Maybe get in a punch or two. He thinks about how he met Soos, how the kid looked absolutely downtrodden. He’d acted flippant about it, but he was so happy that he was able to make the kid smile again. He thought about how in the winter he would wake up with blue lips, barely breathing. About how some nights he would wonder if he’d wake up in the morning. And some nights, he’d wonder if he really wanted to wake up. The blade touched his skin and he almost jumped in shock.

It felt like he was stuck between worlds, two sides of his brain were warring and he felt numb to it. One side told him to cut, just once and then he’d be done. The other side pleaded with him, telling him that it wouldn’t just be once, and that he didn’t have to go down that road. They told him that the scars would remain. One said he deserved it, the other told him that it wasn’t worth it. Why was this so difficult? Just like everything else, it seemed that either choice he made would only hurt him. A drop of blood dripped down his thigh, and he jerked his hand up. The standstill was broken. He’d accidentally pressed too hard, and the edge had just barely cut in. Not enough to make a scar.

Hot shame boiled within him, though he wasn’t sure whether it was because he’d made the cut, or because he didn’t press harder. Tears sprung to his eyes as he looked at the sharp blade. It felt like there was a stone in his chest, and fire behind his eyes. His hand gripped the blade tightly, hand trembling. With a sudden clarity, he realized that he wouldn’t cut again. With a heavy sigh, he put the blade down, tears running freely down his face now. It was almost far too difficult for a thing of its size. He didn’t resist cutting for forty years to start now. He was going to win this war. He might lose some battles, but this was not one of them. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. He can do this.


End file.
